Escape From Fear (7 page)

“Do I have to? I want to eat it sitting here, watching the boats.”

“You go on, Denise,” Jack told her. “I'll stay with Ashley.”

“I prefer to remain as well,” Forrest announced.

When Denise hesitated, Jack said, “We can get ourselves across the street. Go on. We'll be along soon.”

“All right, then. No place else, understand? Finish the pie and then come straight over.” Pushing back from the table, Denise stood quickly, which caused her earrings to swing furiously. “I have a lot of explaining to do to your parents. It might be better if I do it alone.”

Moving easily, Denise half jumped down the stairs and made her way across the street. Several people greeted her as she walked, and she answered each with a friendly wave. Soon she vanished into the Park Headquarters building.

“I hope Mom and Dad won't get mad that we went to see Cimmaron without them,” Ashley began, taking a bite of the pale green pie filling. When she saw Forrest's expression, she quickly added, “But I know it'll be fine. They'll probably help you find her again—if you want that. Do you still want to see Cimmaron?”

Forrest shrugged. His eyes were fixed on his glass again, and this time he dropped bits of napkin into the cherry remains. What a messy thing to do, Jack thought. He was just thinking he should leave the waitress an extra tip when he heard an old blue Chevrolet rattle loudly up the street. He watched as it squeezed into a space that was too small for its size, rocking forward, then back, until it stopped with only inches to spare. The driver of the car got out and slammed the door, slinging a macramé purse over her shoulder. Her hair was unbound and wild, and her jewel-green sarong seemed alive in the ocean breeze.

Cimmaron had come.

“S
o you waited for me. You have tenacity.” Dropping into Denise's empty chair, Cimmaron raised her hand to signal the waitress, who trotted over immediately. “Iced tea, please, with a twist of lemon.”

“Certainly.” Flipping out her order book, the waitress scribbled quickly, asking, “Would you like a menu?”

“No, thank you. I will not be staying.”

Forrest's eyes—the same almond-shaped eyes as Cimmaron had—bored into her, but Cimmaron didn't return his gaze. She looked different out of uniform. Freed from the ponytail, her hair was much longer than Jack would have guessed, halfway down her back and tight with curls. A wooden necklace of sea creatures hung just past her collarbone, set off by earrings in the shape of starfish and a bracelet stamped with sand dollars. Cranberry lipstick had been painted carefully on her full lips, and there was a faint blush of color on her high cheekbones, yet she wore no eye makeup. An exotic mixture of gardenia and spice made her smell heavenly. The only thing that betrayed a life of hard work was her hands. The skin was dry and cracked, and her knuckles looked too large for her fingers.

It was Ashley who flared up. Rocking forward, her elbows on the table, she looked sternly at Cimmaron. “What do you mean, you're not staying? Why not? And why did you make Forrest sit here, wondering the whole time if you were coming? You should have seen him, staring at every car that went by. It was awful!”

“Ashley—” Jack began, sending his sister a warning look. He knew how her heart went out to anything hurt or injured. From abandoned wild creatures to kids at school who'd been bullied, she was always standing up for them and taking their part. But this was different. This was an adult she was ripping into.

Ignoring him, Ashley pushed on. “You know what? We almost left before you got here. What if we had gone? You don't even know where to find Forrest! He would have flown back to Denver thinking you didn't even care!”

“I don't answer to you, girl,” Cimmaron said coolly. “I answer to no one but myself.”

Forrest shot Ashley a grateful look that at the same time was a warning. “It's all right, Ashley. Really.”

The waitress suddenly appeared, setting down the glass of iced tea and chirping, “Is there anything else I can get you?” to which Cimmaron smiled and replied, “No. Thank you.”

“OK, then, have a nice day!” She tucked the bill on the table and left. Forrest grabbed it before Cimmaron had a chance to, sliding it quickly into his pocket.

“Give that to me!” Cimmaron demanded, thrusting her palm at Forrest. “I pay my own way. I don't let no one do for me, not unless I ask, and I'm not asking.”

“I can afford to buy you a glass of iced tea.”

“We're not talking what you can or cannot afford—that is
not
the question!”

“Cimmaron—let it go,” Jack told her softly. He put his hand on her wrist, and felt the nub of her bracelet under his fingertips. “Just let him do one thing for you. You're probably not going to see each other again, so don't waste your time fighting over stupid stuff. OK?
Let it go.”

For a moment, Cimmaron seemed confused, as if for the first time since she'd arrived she didn't know exactly how to respond. Finally, with the barest nod, she withdrew her extended hand. “Your one friend has wisdom while your other one has spirit,” Cimmaron told Forrest. “I'm glad of that. Me, I barge through life, mostly alone, but it is easier with friends. Good friends. Friends like my Miss Amelia, who is old, but she tells it straight. Those are the ones you keep.”

“Yes,” Forrest said. “It's only children you give away.”

There was a deadly pause as Forrest's words sank in.

Cimmaron hiked her macramé purse to her shoulder as if she were going to leave. Then, seeming to think better of it, let it drop slowly to the ground, the strap slipping through her fingers like sand out of an hourglass. Sighing, she pressed her fingertips into her eyes as she seemed to search for the right words to say. “I came because…I wanted a chance to…explain,” she said at last. “I'm sorry, child. Sorry that life can deal us such hard times. You, a mixed child; me, a poor black woman trying to stay alive. I did what I thought I had to do.”

“Who was my father?”

Jack was amazed at the dry way Forrest asked the question, as if he were ordering a burger with fries. But his face betrayed him; his lips trembled at the edges.

Cimmaron looked suddenly weary. “He was young, he was handsome—I loved him very much. He died.”

Forrest flinched. “Would you tell me something about him? Anything?”

Lips pressed tight, Cimmaron lowered her eyes as if she were peering into the past. In a soft voice she began, “A good man. An American who cared. He was a volunteer for a human rights group that went to Haiti in 1989—”

“To Haiti?” Forrest interrupted.

“Yes. For months he documented the atrocities that happened there every day, because of the revolution, the poverty, the corruption…. Thousands of Haitians were killed by the Macoutes.”

“What are Macoutes?” Jack asked.

“Thugs. Criminals. Some of them were soldiers, some police, but all thugs. They roamed in gangs, robbing and murdering.” She shook her head. “After so many months of that terror, that constant danger, your father came here, Forrest, to get away from it all, to have a respite for just two short weeks. That was when I met him. I loved him as soon as I saw him.”

Ashley sighed because it sounded romantic, but Forrest's face remained expressionless. “What happened next?” he questioned.

“He felt that he had to go back, to gather evidence to tell the world about the atrocities in Haiti. So…I went with him. To help him.” She said it as if it were perfectly natural to follow someone into peril. “I knew we would be in terrible danger, because the Macoutes had a list—a hit list—and he was on it. But I wanted to be with him.”

The iced tea sat in front of her, untouched. Tracing a finger across the frost on the glass, she continued quietly, “One night the Macoutes dragged him out of the shack. They beat him to death. No one came to help because they were afraid.”

“Did—did you see it?” Forrest asked, his voice choked.

A single tear slid down Cimmaron's dark cheek. She brushed it away impatiently as she answered in a bitter voice, “I'd gone to find food for the two of us—food and water were so hard to get. When I came back….” She left the sentence unfinished, but Jack could imagine the scene. It rose unbidden into his imagination: the murdered man, the terrified woman, the horror….

“Others told me that the Macoutes were after me, too. A Haitian family hid me in the slums of Port-au-Prince, but I knew I must escape from the fear, must get back to St. John, because….” She paused and stared directly at Forrest. “Because I was pregnant. With you.”

The rest of her words came out in a rush, as though they were so painful she had to tell them quickly or not at all. “Smugglers brought me here to St. John. I had no money, so I signed a paper that I would pay them four thousand dollars as soon as I could. Then you were born….”

Forrest sucked in his breath.

“For a while I couldn't work. The smugglers said if I didn't pay them soon, they would harm you, Forrest. They are terrible, greedy men, as bad as the Macoutes. Maybe worse. Then I found a job as a maid for the Winthrops, but I knew it would be for only a short time because they would be leaving soon—”

“Why didn't you ask them for the money?” Forrest demanded. “They would have given it to you, if you'd only explained.”

Cimmaron answered heatedly, “Why should I have burdened them with my troubles? I don't beg for anything from anybody. I work for what I get.” A little calmer, she continued, “Mrs. Winthrop—she adored you, Forrest, from the moment she first saw you. When she asked if she could adopt you, I knew you would be safe, because the Winthrops would take you away from harm to where the smugglers couldn't find you. It didn't matter what the smugglers would do to me. I only wanted you to be safe.”

Forrest's jaw worked as he stared, not at Cimmaron, but at the street where noisy, laughing students walked in couples or in groups, enjoying their freedom. After a while he murmured, “What is my father's name?”

“Chris. Chris Carter,” Cimmaron answered. “He was only 22 when the Macoutes killed him.”

“Christopher? Christian?” Forrest urged. “Did he have a middle name? I have to know his exact name so I can find out everything about him. As soon as I get home I'll start a search—”

“No!” Cimmaron was on her feet now. “Forrest, hear me. You have a father. The man who raised you. You belong to those parents, not to me, not to the past. Look forward, never back.” Leaning her knuckles against the tabletop, her eyes intent on Forrest's, she said, “You need to be strong. You have the blood of princes in your veins.”

Princes
? Jack and Ashley exchanged glances. How could Forrest have the blood of princes if his father had been a young American and his mother was a maid?

Standing tall, Cimmaron said, “I'm leaving now, Forrest. I want you to forget this meeting, forget me.”

Forrest exploded, “This can't be good-bye. I'm not done! There's more—I know who you are. I know what you're doing here on St. John.”

At those words, Cimmaron froze. The emotion drained from her face. In its place was an expression of polite, detached interest. “I'm a maid. I clean—”

Forrest rocked to his feet. “Forget your excuses.
I know
. Do you understand what I am saying? I have information. Information that can help you. But if you leave now—” When a lady in a pink baseball cap looked over at them, Forrest dropped his voice to a loud whisper. “Why do you think I came on a plane all the way to St. John? It was for you. Not just to find you, but to save you!”

Jack and Ashley stared at one another, wide-eyed. What was Forrest talking about?

“I don't need saving,” Cimmaron snapped.

In frustration Forrest jerked his fingers through his hair, leaving faint rows in his tight curls. “Look, the government found out about the operation.”

“That is nothing to me. I've done nothing wrong.”

“What operation?” Ashley asked, but Forrest went on as though no one else were present.

“All I know is that your name is on a list. An official from St. John called my father and left the message on his answering machine—as a professional courtesy, the man said. After that I heard your message, too.”

“Forrest, what is going on?” Jack demanded. From the tone in Forrest's voice, Jack knew this had to be the secret Forrest wouldn't tell, the one he'd spoken of in their room, the one he'd said had to do with danger.

Jerking her head at Jack and Ashley, Cimmaron asked, “Do they understand?”

“No.”

“I ask you to keep it that way.”

“Don't worry about Ashley and Jack, worry about the government. You can't do it any more. It's illegal. If you're caught, you'll go to jail.”

Cimmaron's mind seemed to be whirring a mile a minute. The tip of her thumbnail made its way into her mouth as she looked out over the harbor. “You said there were names—do you have them?”

The question surprised Forrest. “Yes—I—back at the room,” he stammered. “I wrote them down and brought them with me.”

“Then I will meet you tonight, in a little park by the wharf. It's called Harbor Park. Be there at seven o'clock tonight. I am a storyteller for the visitors to St. John—no one will think anything if you are there. Bring me the list.”

Forrest nodded, and a glimmer of a smile bent the corners of his lips. His mother had fought him, and he had fought back. In a way, that made them equals. And they would meet again, just as Forrest wanted. “Don't worry, I'll be there,” he said firmly.

Cimmaron startled Jack by addressing him and his sister. “I know you have no part in this, but hear me.” She leaned so close her perfume filled Jack's head. “Lives hang in the balance,” she said, her black eyes darting from Jack to Ashley, then back again. “I'm asking you to tell no one what you've just heard. Will you do that for me—for Forrest? For us?”

“But I don't know what it is I'm promising not to tell,” Ashley protested. She looked to Jack, who shook his head softly. He didn't know what to do or how to handle this. The words “illegal” and “jail” kept stinging his mind like hornets. Jail was serious, which meant whatever Cimmaron was involved in could be major trouble. They were asking Jack to give his word, and he was someone who kept his promises. Always. It would be better not to commit himself and his sister to covering up anything that sounded like a crime—and yet, was it really covering up if he didn't actually know details? And what about Cimmaron? Did she need protection? Forrest seemed to think so—he'd come all the way to St. John to make sure of it. Were lives really in the balance?

“I don't know…,” Jack began reluctantly. It was when he saw Forrest's pleading expression that he caved. Whatever was involved, one thing was certain. Cimmaron had been about to walk away from Forrest until they'd forged this strange link that was hammered out of names on a list. Somehow Jack knew that if he told, that link between Cimmaron and Forrest would be broken. No, Jack quickly decided, he'd keep quiet. If for nothing else, he'd do it for Forrest.

“Yeah, sure. We won't tell,” Jack said. Ashley looked at him, uncertain, before she nodded her agreement.

“All right then.” Gentle as a butterfly, Cimmaron bent over Forrest and brushed her lips against his forehead, leaving the faintest blush of red. “You are a good son,” she whispered. “When you come tonight, you will hear my stories. I'll tell of a time long before you were born. You will learn of our people. You'll learn of your blood. Tonight, then.”